Small adjustments
by Anatomy Melancholia
Summary: A good soldier is prepared for anything, but the Human blind-sided her. He had lost everything, almost as much as she had, and he was not breaking. Aeryn cannot understand how John can bear it. John teaches her.


A/N: This is set extremely early in Season 1. For rijane who wanted a fic where John teaches Aeryn something.

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><p>At the end of her first week, Aeryn catalogued everything she knew about the Human into two lines: He is an absolute liability. He is interesting, possibly fahrbot.<p>

There was no report to give a Captain here because this drennik of prisoners made up their rules arbitrarily, shouting and arguing over each other. Two were animals, one a frelling priestess who called on the Goddess at every juncture, and the fourth was... Crichton.

She liked the smell of Moya though. Her room, with a small window to the stars. And Pilot. She liked these things with half-shy wonder at herself.

She liked the quiet arns on Command too, when the others were elsewhere. That is, until Crichton started to "pop" by every solar day.

The Human had no discipline. He began his conversations with "So" or "Hey," words that were as meaningless as they were confusing.

"What?" Aeryn snapped, when he came blundering in, scrabbling over the star charts in the corner.

John turned to face her, blue eyes wide and guileless. "What?" he repeated back.

And this is what she had to put up with, this frellnick form of conversation.

"What do you want?" Aeryn bit out slowly.

"Hey, I just wanted to look at some charts." He had his hands in the air, both palms facing her. "Did I interrupt your terribly important thinking time?"

Aeryn scanned the position against all the fighting styles she knew and came up blank. He looked ridiculous with his shoulders hunched in that strange position and his body unprotected.

"What is this?" she said, gesturing to him, and then lifting her hands around her face. "What does this mean?"

Crichton broke out into a startled laugh and dropped his arms. "God," he said. "I forget. It's weird, but I forget you have no idea what I'm doing or saying half the time."

"Crichton."

"Yeah, OK. This," and he did the strange gesture again, "is a sign of peace. Like, don't hurt me, I'm unarmed, and I'm really not looking to piss you off."

Aeryn's hands dropped so fast she smacked her fingers against the console. "Submission," she said, and the word was distasteful on her tongue. Ugly, like 'irreversibly contaminated' was ugly.

There were still reminders of home on Moya. The practice mats were Peacekeeper black and red. The food stores, weapon stores, were familiar sights and smells. She would _not_ lose herself to this isolation.

"No," the Human said, advancing. "It means, 'Look, I just don't want any trouble.'"

"That is submission," she replied flatly.

"Will you stop saying that like it's such a bad thing? Maybe if you did a little _submitting_ to the situation, you wouldn't be in such a goddamned funk all the time."

The translator microbes just transmitted the word directly to her brain. Aeryn heard 'funk' and turned it over in her mind, uncomprehendingly. Her body went still, fists tight, and she was half a microt from dropping the frelling Human where he stood. She'd had the right instinct the first second she saw him.

"Whoa, Aeryn." He had his hands up again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

Placating her, Aeryn realised. It was much the same as when Travik had chipped her tooth during recreation. She had not attacked Travik then, she would not attack Crichton now.

Aeryn took a deep breath. "Fine," she said and turned away from him. In the window, she could see herself and the Human reflected in muted colours – the black of her shirt merged with the black of space, leaving just her face and arms stark floating. His white shirt was clearer, crisp against the pale outlines of his skin.

"What is a a funt?" she asked.

Crichton cleared his throat quietly and she heard rustling of paper from the corner. "Funk. It means the blues, sadness, being upset."

Blues. Another Erp word that had no meaning, but she thought she understood what he meant. He was wrong though. It was reds, sharp as a morning star and painful as heat.

He stood beside her then, close as a friend. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" His hand pointed out towards the blackness. "I spent so long looking up at the night sky. I used to dream of being here."

"And now you dream of going home."

Crichton turned to face her and she was reminded of different types of beauty. Peacekeepers were not bred for beauty. She wondered if Humans were.

"Don't you?" he asked softly.

"No." Peacekeepers were bred for strength. "We do not wish for things we cannot have and we do not indulge our weaknesses."

She looked at his hand, resting on Moya's golden console beside hers. He used his hands for so many bewildering gestures, for pointing at space and apologising, for rubbing at his lower lip and waving Rygel off. Hezmana, his whole body was undisciplined.

As if he'd heard her thoughts, he stilled and said, calmly, "That's just about the saddest thing I've ever heard. Hey Aeryn, news-flash. There is no PK 'we' out here in the Uncharteds. It's just you, me, D'argo, Sparky, and Zhaan. And you are allowed to mourn for it."

"Crichton, _you_ are the one who's lost."

"Yeah. But not the only one."

The ache pressed upon her, weaving his words tighter and tighter around her chest. When she spoke again, she leached poison and blood. "What are you talking about, Crichton? You call this a 'funt', I call this taking care of my ship. Someone should be on watch at all hours–"

"Aeryn."

"–and I do not know or like you, but I am stuck with you, so what should I do differently?"

The Human stared at her. Perhaps he was angry – his jaw was tight, his nostrils flared. He looked like Henta inspecting the new recruits. Then he relaxed and a small smile crept across his face. "Nothing," he said. "You're doing just fine." And he raised his thumb towards her. "I'll leave you alone now."

A good soldier is prepared for anything, but the Human blind-sided her. He was unpredictable, undisciplined, weak... unafraid too. He had lost everything, almost as much as she had, and he was not breaking. How could he bear it?

They were all she had. _This_ was all she had left. The Luxan had offered her a commerce planet, but Aeryn cringed at the thought. Space was all she had left, and frell, if she would lose that too so soon.

His footsteps grew softer.

"Crichton." Aeryn swallowed before turning around and raising her thumb. "What is this?"

Crichton froze near the door and turned back. "What do you think?" he asked, leaning against the wall.

Aeryn looked at her hand from different angles. It was a very strange gesture, almost a fist. "Peace?" she hazarded. All his gestures so far had been submissive. What a frellnick race.

His laughter was loud and unconstrained. She saw his eyes crinkle at the corners, their strange blue irises shining brightly, and her face grew warm.

"Are you mocking me?" she snapped. "I don't know what the frell this is, but –"

"It means 'well done'. It's a compliment, Aeryn."

Aeryn shut her mouth, looked at her hand and back at the Human.

Crichton shrugged. "You're doing as well as can be expected, I guess.

"We're not your enemies though," he continued meaningfully. "Unless you try to kill us or sell us out. But we've got Rygel for that."

He had a nice smile, Aeryn decided. It was... It made her want to smile back.

She raised her thumb in the strange Human gesture. "You also," she said tentatively.


End file.
